Waking up from a long and tattered sleep.

I find it interesting how, if I go a few days without blogging, I kind of lose the knack. I have to make a real effort to get back into it, and it isn't easy figuring out what to say.

I went to the doctor Friday. Not about the hand, about the depression. I weaned my baby-now-toddler about a month ago and while the depression has been getting better since then it hasn't been getting all that much better. The husband leaned on me a little (Husband: "Why don't you make an appointment to see the doctor on Friday? I'll watch the girls. Here's the phone.") so I went along. I'm on medication now and I'm already feeling better, which really surprised me. It's probably a placebo effect, but that's OK, because I laughed during a movie last night. I can't think of the last time I laughed. I mean, really laughed, out of joy and lightheartedness, not just temporary amusement.

It's ironic, how after I tried so hard and so long to get pregnant, now it's something I fear. I don't mind the physical aspect of it. I would love to have another baby. I'd be more than happy to go through the gestational diabetes, the 9 months of 24/7 nausea, the further destruction of my figure. It's worth it. It's the depression I dread. I don't even know who I am anymore. I've been barely functioning for months, and it's not like I've been up to making the best decisions in the world. I'm apathetic, constantly exhausted, almost completely emotionally detached from the people I love.

I would love to have another child, but I don't think I could endure this kind of depression again. And while it's a moot point, since we've already decided not to pursue pregnancy again, it's a realization that reinforces that decision for me. Another baby would be wonderful; another pregnancy would be a nightmare.

I wish it was otherwise, though.